


I'd Never Dreamed

by Dragantia



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, Fluff and Angst, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Idiots in Love, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Monsters, POV Alternating, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Roach is the Best (The Witcher)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 06:07:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29291115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragantia/pseuds/Dragantia
Summary: Jaskier is bored and left unattended in a small town with the less than pleased Roach. Geralt realizes he should not have left them unattended...
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 4
Kudos: 58





	I'd Never Dreamed

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there!
> 
> This is the first thing I have written and posted so please forgive my errors, especially with tagging and summaries (have discovered I am not good with those). 
> 
> This started with a video of a horse "playing" a piano. I hope you enjoy it and if you are reading this and it makes you smile, then I am a happy creature. 
> 
> Thank you so much to the wonderful PencilSketchS for wading through this, catching many mistakes and problems and for all the lovely comments and advice!

Jaskier was bored. The town of Rhett outside this dingy tavern was small, its people were docile and the weather middling. Squat wooden houses crowded streets of dark mud and haphazard old cobbles. A light breeze tumbled old leaves on the scent of clean air and the large, strong river from which the town took its name. Few people milled around small market-type stalls hawking fish or herbs but most had left early in the morning to tend the grain or the surprisingly fine mares and foals in the surrounding fields. Pale midmorning sunshine broke through a thin layer of grey clouds but it did nothing to improve the dreary greys and browns outside. Jaskier and bright chestnut Roach were definitely the most colourful things in Rhett. In fact even Geralt’s relentless black armour was more colourful than Rhett as a whole. Not that Jaskier was complaining about Geralt’s choice of armour colour. Black was an arresting contrast for Geralt’s golden eyes and white hair and Jaskier adored appreciating his handsome Witcher in black armour as much as he relished peeling the White Wolf out of it. He suspected Geralt knew this because black was hardly a practical colour for clothing when the mud and dirt were all brown.

Jaskier fidgeted with a dirty cream cloth on the table before him. The inn was much like the town, humble, peaceful and unbearably boring. He had been waiting in Rhett for Geralt to return and had run out of entertainment within the first two hours. He had cleaned his lute, composed two new songs he hadn’t the inspiration to refine yet and had hastily despaired of finding anything interesting to buy in the utilitarian settlement. He had then performed at their inn and the townsfolk had been unusually generous with their coin, probably on the assumption that they would win it and more out of him later at Gwent. They had been so very wrong about that. Jaskier was a _horrible_ Gwent player, he could not be bothered less with the all the boring strategy involved and the effort of collecting the silly cards. He was, however, an artful cheat. He felt no guilt about it. Townsfolk invariably tried to cheat Geralt out of his fee despite the Witcher risking his life for them. Geralt rarely told Jaskier of such attempts, he rather shielded Jaskier from all the bad parts of humanity, so Jaskier could only guess at how many were successful. Jaskier thought it was only fair then that he extracted what should be his Wolf’s from the townsfolk in a different manner.

It was now a whole night later and Jaskier was flat out of ideas to keep himself entertained other than set fire to the Gwent cards he had ‘won’ last night. Apparently to Gwent players and even Geralt, this was some kind of sacrilege. Jaskier did not understand the fuss about paper cards so easily cheated off others any more than he understood the flight mechanics of a wyvern and why it was different to that of a harpy (and never may another living creature try to explain any of those concepts to him again). Rhett also appeared to be out of easily available coin and Jaskier would have to work a bit harder to extricate the rest from them. He did like a challenge, he had managed to get Geralt’s malevolent Roach on his side, Rhett should be easy in comparison. He would just have to think a bit.

Geralt and Jaskier had arrived in Rhett early in the evening yesterday. The town had not been friendly but it had also not been hostile so Jaskier had procured a room at the town’s single inn and Geralt, after conversing with the mayor, had taken his swords and an array of potions to hunt the monster immediately. Jaskier had heard the term Rusalka and though he wasn’t sure what that was, it seemed to be of the nocturnal fangs and claws variety but resident in deep running water. That meant Geralt taking a bewildering range of potions to survive and best the monster that would drag him into the river. Normally Jaskier would ignore Geralt’s admonishments to stay clear and would accompany him as close to the monster as he dared. This time however, Geralt had used the tone that genuinely meant Jaskier was to stay in Rhett with Roach. Jaskier suspected that for this hunt, it was less about the danger and more because Geralt did not want him to see the effects of the Witcher potions. The Wolf Witcher had after all gone off with a whole bag full of them. 

It was a curious aversion that was entirely without warrant as far as Jaskier was concerned. It was not as though Jaskier did not know Geralt was a Witcher. It was rather hard to mistake the uncommonly broad, powerful and athletic man with unsettling amber slit-pupiled eyes and two swords on his back as anything but one of the fearsome and fabled monster hunters. Yes, the first time he had seen Geralt before the Witcher potions had worn off had surprised Jaskier. Well, ‘shocked’ was a better description for the yelp that Jaskier had emitted and the log he had toppled from but it was genuinely because he had been startled. It had definitely not been out of terror or disgust. He had been absorbed in his notebook and had simply not been prepared to see Geralt so soon, nor with sinister black eyes, an eerie ashen complexion and thick dark veins visible throughout his skin. Yes, fine, Geralt did _look_ frightening while still under the effects of the potions but he was still _Geralt_. Frankly, that night, Jaskier had been equally unprepared for Geralt’s near soundless approach out of the dark forest. Roach had. Jaskier could swear Geralt’s temperamental mare had rolled her eyes at him sprawled awkwardly upside down behind the log. Jaskier felt no fear toward Geralt and he most definitely did not find Geralt repulsive. How could he? In fact, that night Geralt had only braved looking for Jaskier, despite the lingering effects of the potions, because he had thought Jaskier might be in danger. No, there was no place other than at the White Wolf’s side, or in those soft moments with Geralt smiling warmly in his arms, that Jaskier would rather be. He was dedicated to showing the Witcher this at every opportunity.

Still, the damage had been done on what had already been an uncomfortable subject for Geralt. Jaskier assumed Geralt saw it as another reminder that he was different…. _wrong_ somehow. That he had been trained and taught only violence and survival, made and twisted decades ago by alchemists and mages into a creature that was only capable of death and pain. A creature that deserved to be outcast, sentenced to the dark and the cold with the monsters he hunted and one day, like all of his slowly vanishing kind, to the dust of gladly forgotten history books. Humanity was relentless in emphasizing those same thoughts with stones and fire, conveniently _after_ the monsters had been killed. Geralt was wrong. Humans were wrong. Jaskier was good at judging character, it was part of his profession and his self-preservation instincts were just fine, thank you very much, whatever Geralt thought to the contrary, and he could see that all of them were wrong. Geralt could be terrifying but he possessed a moral code that made Jaskier’s look like a score even the appalling Valdo Marx might reject (a child’s drawing then) and Geralt might not have read the high literature that Jaskier had been fortunate to access but, by the gods, Geralt was clever, far more so than Jaskier. That statement was not to be underestimated in the slightest, not only did Geralt have a vast amount of bestiary, alchemy, weapons, survival and magical knowledge filed away in his chiseled head but he was extremely quick to grasp and apply new concepts. Above all and most importantly, Geralt was _kind_. Immeasurably kinder than Jaskier felt humanity, in all it’s stupidity and cruelty, deserved.

Witchers had all been human, or elves of the Cat School, if the rumours were true, before their Trial of the Grasses. The tale of Witchers not having emotions was just that, a fiction humans used to defend their condemnation and hostility toward the boys they demanded be trained and mutated into shields from the monsters of their own making. At first even Jaskier had been convinced the stories of mutations stripping Witchers of emotion were true. He was ashamed to admit that it had taken some time for him to realize that Geralt’s impassiveness was an adaptation to his environment, that the Wolf Witcher was masterful at restraining his expressions and hiding his thoughts. Now of course, Jaskier felt his eyes light up at Geralt’s soft smile when pleased, savoured his amber eyes hazed over in lust and pleasure, his heart bled when they clouded at a Wraith’s tragic origin or a child’s body in Nekker warren and when they flashed in that cold, calculating fury…. well, if Jaskier hid a thrill of excitement and lust then so be it. The point was that Jaskier _knew_ Geralt felt the entire spectrum of emotion, just as a human, if not more keenly.

It helped nothing that the side effects of the Witcher potions, aside from Geralt's appearance, were dreadful. Humanity’s current popular opinion was that Witchers brewed magical cures and jealously hoarded the distillates to eternal life. Humanity’s popular opinion was, as usual, _stupid_. Witcher potions were poisons. They were poisons that Witchers had realized, with very careful calculation, their mutated physiology could endure for a temporary benefit. A Witcher potion would be lethal to a human. Geralt’s black eyes and pale skin and engorged veins were not magic, not part of a curse, not possession by a devil, they were the Witcher’s body desperately trying to clear the potion before it killed him.

Jaskier made a point of helping Geralt weather the after-effects of the Witcher potions, whether asked to or not and with his alarm at their consequences firmly in check. He was aware that Geralt likely did not need any help but it was a comfort that Jaskier could give and he wanted to. Sometimes it was only small things that eased Geralt: candles and fires swiftly doused when the light was too bright for Cat enhanced vision or bland bread and water kept on hand for the grey decoction that wreaked havoc on the Geralt’s appetite. Sometimes it was larger things for Geralt’s wariness and pride to tolerate but Jaskier was nothing if not a prodigy with words. Jaskier gently easing the exhausted Witcher out of armour and wet, bloodstained clothes when the fading Tawny Owl left him awkward and clumsy, was one of those things. Jaskier could tell the clumsiness disturbed and frustrated Geralt, whose normal movements were a painting of inhuman power, grace and the surety of one both well trained to use their body and having had decades of acquaintance with it. Jaskier maintained that undoing the complicated buckles and straps made _him_ feel useful but they both knew better as evidenced by the exhausted ‘thank you’ he had kissed away one night in an old hut. Jaskier always prepared and draped cool damp cloths over Geralt’s head when the Philter of Petri raged through his broad frame or covered the wounds White Raffards had hastily knit and that burned while Geralt’s unnaturally rapid healing caught up. Geralt never protested. Each time, once Geralt was as comfortable as Jaskier could achieve or would simply tolerate no more attention, Jaskier curled up next to his Wolf or as close as he dared through the sickening hallucinations that overtook Geralt when his tired body refused consciousness. He wished he could do more but Geralt had bade him stay away as the Witcher was not always in control of his own strength during such periods.

Jaskier would have called them nightmares but no. One early morning, a year ago now when they were still in their bedrolls in the quiet of a small campsite, Jaskier had mentioned dreaming about a lake. Geralt had queried him on what he could recall of the dream and because it was so unusual for Geralt to be curious about something so trivial, Jaskier had been only too happy to oblige. He had described the flat grey water shimmering in the sunlight and the sky that must have been clear even though he could not recall seeing it in his dream. He had dragged up a fleeting image of a little grey bird and the yellow tail of a fish. It had been impossible to give description to the blurry greenery but he had wrestled the rapidly fading recollection for the inhabitants of the small cabin on the water’s edge. Geralt had listened intently, occasionally prompting Jaskier to describe something more until Jaskier had eventually run out of memory. Then they had settled back into easy silence, Geralt staring up at the leafy canopy above them, seemingly preoccupied with something, and Jaskier mulling over the chorus for a new song. Eventually, after a long while, Geralt had whispered that he had not dreamed since he had been a young boy, before Vesemir had taken him to Kaer Morhen. That Witchers did not see anything when they slept unless it was the hallucinations induced by the lingering White Raffard's potion. The ability to dream was stripped from them by the mutations during the Trial of the Grasses. Jaskier had simply blinked at Geralt for several moments. Then he had felt his fists close and his body tremble first with what felt like lances through his heart and then searing fury. Of all that the Witcher Schools had taken from their charges, they had stolen _dreams_ from Geralt too! Geralt had been watching Jaskier carefully and whatever he had seen, his golden eyes had dulled and he had wordlessly started breaking down the camp. Geralt never mentioned it again and Jaskier never brought it up but the fury lingered in him. That was until he had seen how Geralt battled vivid and relentless ‘nightmares’. Jaskier held particular hatred for White Raffards.

Jaskier stared out of the Rhett inn’s window, his mind painting memories over his eyes. Geralt and he were still so new. They had been friends (Jaskier _was_ using the word friends no matter what Geralt thought) for years but _this_ …this admittance of love between them, was barely months old. Jaskier fondly recalled the exact moment, a morning months ago, he had been half roused from sleep by the feeling of the cramped shared bed in a nameless village moving under Geralt’s weight. He hadn’t opened his eyes until he had felt the Witcher’s strong arms encircle him and his broad, calloused thumb stroked Jaskier’s face ever so tenderly. Geralt’s eyes, returned to their familiar amber, had searched Jaskier for something. This time, they did not dull. This time, against all that should be possible, golden irises lit up and softened around slit pupils in the early morning light. Jaskier could not say what Geralt had found, he had been too caught up in Geralt’s cautious, pleased smile.

Jaskier smiled fondly to himself, thinking about that very first morning Geralt had simply held him gently. How Jaskier had reached out ever so carefully and placed his hands around Geralt’s scarred face. How he had traced the long vertical scar that split Geralt’s left brow and how Geralt, for the first time ever, had not flinched or shied away. Jaskier knew he had been beaming like an idiot in love, which he had been and still was. He had drawn their foreheads together and in that simple, warm and innocent moment his heart had lifted at Geralt’s soft murmur of “Jaskier”. Geralt’s arms had tightened round him, drawn him close with strength no human could possess and yet still was gentle, so gentle. Jaskier had known then it was this man he loved. That this was the man besides whom he would spend however many days the gods saw fit to give him. This was the man for whom he would beseech the gods for whatever blessing or curse would bestow him more.

Jaskier made sure Geralt knew exactly how much he cherished and desired him. He was chipping away at the lonely walls and had found that the formidable Witcher, Geralt of Rivia, and the ‘Butcher of Blaviken’ (Jaskier hated the moniker) was faithful, warm and, well… _affectionate_ . Words and emotions were, understandably, not a simple matter for the reserved Witcher but he _showed_ Jaskier his love as often as Jaskier said the words. Touches and actions reserved only for Jaskier, the care and protection he showered upon Jaskier and the quiet, loving words that were only ever for his beloved bard’s ears. Perhaps the most striking of all was that Geralt _trusted_ Jaskier. Geralt entrusted Jaskier not only with his horse or weapons or once his Witcher medallion but with his life. He let Jaskier push him around, closed his eyes when asked, surrendered himself to Jaskier’s care as much his century of learned wariness would tolerate. It was a huge gesture from a person taught time and again by both a ruthless Witcher school and the harsh, unforgiving Path that isolation when wounded or ill meant perhaps risking death. Being in human hands when wounded or ill meant almost certain death.

Jaskier was relieved that Geralt no longer always waited out in the cold and the dark, tending to his own wounds or suffering the after-effects of the potions alone. He knew and respected the potions as a sensitive area so the unpredictable times when Geralt would not tolerate interference, Jaskier left it. He made certain that Geralt knew he was always welcome, that Jaskier loved him and Jaskier could see how, ever so slowly, Geralt was coming to realize that Jaskier meant it. 

And welcomed Geralt would be, when he returned and they left this boring little hovel.

______________

Geralt, chest high in the freezing swiftly flowing river, dragged the dead Rusalka to the bank and unceremoniously removed its head. Fighting in water was difficult for any Witcher, even him, and the Rusalka had not gone easily. The small grey stones that made up the banks clung to the head and crunched under his drenched boots. He shoved the remainder of the surprisingly heavy carcass back into the inky current for the scavengers he had felt nibbling at his legs. That accomplished, he turned away from the rising sun which was too bright for his Cat enhanced eyes just yet, retrieved a dry cloth he had left with the remainder of his gear on an outcropping of rocks and wiped his silver sword down. The Rusalka had obviously been feeding well on the local populace. He wondered how long it had been here before anyone had noticed. 

Once dried, Geralt set his sword on his back and yanked his soaked white hair out of Jaskier’s braid. He wanted to keep the careful plaiting in, he missed Jaskier already, but the wet braid pulled at skin that felt as though it was on fire and the water had washed the scent of Jaskier from the white strands. Geralt’s muscles ached and his chest burned from the potions to help him stay underwater for longer. At least the White Raffards had hastily knit the vicious claw marks the Rusalka had left on his neck. They would heal properly in time, they were only weeping sluggishly for now. The early dawn air was cool over his wet armour. He sat down on one of the broad rocks for a moment and closed his eyes against the light. Sleep would be best to weather the aches, ease the vague nausea and settle his eyes, but he dared not sleep here and not until he was sure the White Raffards had worn off. Meditation helped, so he let his mind drift as Kaer Morhen had taught him all those years ago. 

Geralt wanted to return to Jaskier immediately, to feel his warm arms and cheeky grin. He desperately wanted to feel Jaskier’s fingers run fearlessly over his skin as though Geralt was not a mutated monster and have the bard’s cedar and rain scent fill Geralt’s senses, close as though Geralt were not a frightening thing at all. Geralt had had his fangs filed down only a month ago but he always had pointer canines than normal and Jaskier moaned deliciously when he traced them with his tongue. 

But not now. Frustratingly, Geralt could still see the thick ropey dark veins under his skin. He knew Jaskier was not afraid of him and Geralt hated hiding because he could feel that it would hurt Jaskier. It was....He never wanted to hurt Jaskier but he also never wanted Jaskier to know _how_ he derived greater benefits from the Witcher potions and _how_ he suffered longer and more pronounced after-effects. Jaskier was special and Geralt could not risk Jaskier _knowing_ . It was for a similar reason that Geralt avoided his brothers’ suspicious gazes or Vesemir’s hard eyes on him. They saw what was there- too much monster, too little human, too much to contain and too little to trust. No, his brothers saw and suspected but Vesemir _knew_. Geralt’s appearance under the potions only reminded him, and Vesemir, of exactly what he was. Jaskier had seen Geralt twice and Jaskier had not recoiled or bridled but then Jaskier did not know, did not understand the extra mutations the Witcher School had inflicted upon Geralt. He did not understand the effects or their cause. He did not understand what they meant. Geralt never wanted Jaksier to. He had been mutated and made to endure hardships of every description but not Jaskier’s open, loving stance closing off, not his eyes hardening amidst the scent of fear, not Jaskier shaking his head and turning away, never the words ‘not human enough’ from Jaskier’s lips. The old trainers had told him, all those decades ago when Kaer Morhen made him, that that too was one of the flaws of the extra trials that could not be routed out of him. Geralt was not sure anymore. 

So Geralt compromised. He could handle it and he would, just as he had been trained all those decades ago.He regularly waited until at least the worst of the dark veins had worn off before returning to Jaskier. He had to be more careful then to avoid placing Jaskier in danger while he recovered but Rhett had seemed safe enough. Normally Geralt would be suspicious of such a peaceful town and would have taken Jaskier with him to the monster but Rusalkas were cunning and quick to exploit any weakness in their hunters. Placing Jaskier in danger would be unacceptable. Losing Jaskier… he couldn’t.

He knew that Jaskier could more than take care of himself in a town. Never forget that Jaskier only _appeared_ to be colourful and delicate. Jaskier was fierce and intelligent and courageous to the point of being almost feral. He had abandoned the comfort of courts and Oxenfurt University to journey alone in the wilderness between civilizations for years and then, in defiance of everything that Geralt understood, had decided to travel with a _Witcher_. It was as though Jaskier had deemed bandits, inclement weather and predators too tame for his liking and had supplemented them with monsters and mobs of irate townspeople until that too became too ordinary for him. Jaskier had, again in defiance of everything Geralt understood, decided to love Geralt and incur the wrath of religious extremists and in some places the King’s Guards. Luckily the attention of most of those were usually fixed on the armed Witcher, leaving Jaskier in peace. Despite refusing to carry a sword, Jaskier was by now also well versed in a range of weaponry (Geralt had seen to that personally) and Jaskier was fit and strong enough to wield them with effect. Geralt knew first-hand just how muscular and strong. Jaskier could actually restrain him with some success when the exhilarating notes of pleasure and lust swirled around them and…well, he had to focus on meditation. Not get caught up thinking about Jaskier’s physique. Or their bedroom antics. Not now. 

Geralt surfaced lightly enough to shift his focus to his difficult mare. Jaskier was in Rhett with Roach. She was definitely one of the best mares he had ever owned, carefully picked as a filly from the herd the Wolf Witchers kept semi-feral in the mountains around Kaer Morhen. She was fleet, intelligent and bold but even he would admit that she could be a fiend when she felt like it. It was a trait the Wolf Witchers prized in their horses and Roach had inherited the entire Morhen Valley’s worth. He felt almost sorry for the stable hands in Rhett.

Rhett. There was something odd about Rhett. He hadn’t been able to determine why but the town made him uneasy. Its people were not welcoming exactly but they were definitely not hostile or unpleasant at all. The mayor had been straightforward and fair while the villagers that provided the description of the monster had been calm and attentive. No sour tang of fear had caught his nose and there had been no sharp notes of hostility in the air, even from the two guards. He had not heard a single mutter about Witchers, mutants, freaks or monsters in the town. Not a single curse or stone had been thrown. No religious symbols had been hastily drawn in the air as he passed. That was very unusual but it was a blessed change from every other human habitation in a region heavily radicalized by the Eternal Fire. The whole town felt…stale. Isolated….somehow. Serene, safe and contented but _stale_. That was the best word he could think of for it. It was closed off and…..and wrapped in something… in magic.

“ _Fuck_!” Geralt’s eyes shot open, pain from the lances of light be damned.

A Fae! It was Fae land!

His medallion hadn’t reacted but he had not seen a single shrine or altar or church to anything. No religious symbols. No icons. No priest. Not a single whisper of a prayer. Why would there be? The people did not need such things. They saw and heard their protector. They knew it was real. It required no symbols, no emissaries and cared nothing for conversion, only sacrifice in exchange for its protection and power. Rhett held no hostility to Witchers because they were well acquainted with the inhuman and if he was hostile, even Witchers would likely not survive a real Fae. 

_Jaskier_

_Damnit_!

They were almost always peaceful but Fae had peculiar ideas about what was a threat to their herd. A Rusalka preying upon them could be ignored, the creature was just trying to eat, but it would see a card cheating bard swindling its precious population out of their valuables and instigating a riot very differently. And Jaskier was a habitual troublemaker.

Geralt bounded off the rock, grabbed the head and ran, heedless of his body’s protests. The sooner they traded the head for his fee and the bard was out of the Fae’s range, the better.

\--------------

Jaskier had prepared their room in Rhett as best he could for the potions he recognized Geralt packing and then he had gone to check on their horses. Roach was fine, flat eared as always, seemingly revelling in having the line of stallions opposite her cowering at the back of their loose boxes whilst she stretched her neck over and peacefully enjoyed _their_ hay. Her own hay rack was untouched, of course. Roach was Witcher bred, utterly fearless having been raised among weapons and monster hunters. She was a beautiful animal and she adored Geralt but she was _evil_. Even his own friendly bay gelding, Lark, looked relieved to be several stalls away from the fiery mare.

It was now mid-day and the hours had not improved Rhett at all.

He was not anxious that Geralt would not return. Geralt was a powerful, clever and formidable man even without being a Witcher and he was skilled, experienced and notable as a Witcher. Make no error, Geralt could handle Jaskier like a kitten even when suffering the after effects of Tawny Owl. However, if worse came to worst, Jaskier had some… “favours” ... involving certain river gods he might have to thank later and when Geralt was occupied elsewhere. He had never been brave enough to tell Geralt about the complex web of curses, blessings, counter curses and boons he had earned - through no fault of his own - from almost all of the old gods. The Witcher turned tense and taciturn when gods and Fae were mentioned, despite the adoration he had unknowingly inspired in most of the old gods. But that was for much later. 

Right now, Jaskier had Plans. Capital P intended. He had secured the partiality of the very wealthy new Marquis Rathewin who was looking for entertainment for his court and to protect his lands from something from the endless list of ugly-and-smelly-that-ate-humans. That meant weeks of a civilized court for Jaskier to perform in, a primarily advisory task for Geralt with at worst some low level monsters to clean out and most importantly, luxurious undisturbed accommodation for them to enjoy each other in.

Yes and a whole stable full of new horses and grooms for Roach to terrorize.

Jaskier couldn’t wait to leave Rhett.

Ah, and that had given him an idea.

Judging by the weak shadows he still had the afternoon before Geralt was expected to return. Just enough time. With a grin, Jaskier slid off the chair and sauntered back off to the stable for his gear. Jaskier had coin to extract from a populace.

\----------------

Geralt reached Rhett just after midday. The thick black veins under his skin had mercifully faded during the walk back but his eyes, though they had returned to normal for a Witcher, stung in the light. Cat always took ages to wear off. He had dried off too, thankfully, and had tied his hair out of his face again.

The hard-packed, half mud and half paved streets were mostly deserted though he could hear human noise filtering over the old cobbles and between the squat timber houses. The scents of civilization crisscrossed all around him, old and new layered over one another so deep as to be impossible to track. He had been right, not a single religious symbol anywhere. Nothing carved into rough wooden doors, nothing scrawled over eves and no structure that could be picked out as a place of worship. The only unusual thing he had seen, a few hundred yards outside the town, was a flourishing, towering tree with iridescent white bark. Except when he got closer, the bark was actually the standard brown of all trees and was embedded with countless human teeth. Teeth were mild on the list of things he had seen fae extract from their populace, if that was all the fae took from them, and the cold hand around his heart eased somewhat but the sooner he had Jaskier diverted from mischief and they left the fae lands the better.

Given that the town felt peaceful still, the first thing would be to get rid of the Rusalka head. The mayor’s house was on the way to the inn but the mayor was not at his home and neither was anyone else as far as he could tell. For a moment Geralt was genuinely puzzled. He had never walked through a town and carried a monster head with so little… commotion. It was almost pleasant. Was this what towns were like for humans?

He decided to check on Jaskier at the inn, distract the bard from whatever card swindling was in progress, and then perhaps with Jaskier’s knowledge of humans, they would set about finding the elusive mayor together. Besides, Geralt had missed Jaskier last night, he wanted to see him.

Except Jaskier was not at the inn and neither was anyone else. The noise from the town could at least be given direction here. He could make out gasps and cheering from the town centre, a small, poorly cobbled square surrounded by double storey wooden shops, if he remembered correctly. Geralt immediately suspected Jaskier was there. The bard lit up at being the centre of a crowd’s adoring attention. Geralt feared that travelling with a Witcher, being so obviously in love with and attached to a Witcher would one day place Jaskier at the centre of a hostile mob. Geralt was accustomed to it and also a Witcher, hardier than humans. Jaskier was neither. A knot formed in Geralt’s stomach and rage sank it’s razor-edged, burning claws into his chest at the thought of Jaskier tied up in the centre of the town being stoned or worse. Geralt firmly restrained it. He had to focus on finding Jaskier. 

Wary, Geralt made his way to the source of the noise in the centre of the town. As he drew closer he realized that the noise was not depraved cheering at blood on cobbles but the awe of a delighted audience. Geralt’s broad shoulders relaxed somewhat. Curiously, the noise harmonized itself into a tune. It was loud and flat as all singing by large groups became but it was instantly recognizable. It was “Toss a Coin”. He listened a little longer. It was definitely “Toss a Coin”. The tune was unmistakable and one he often caught himself humming before he could stop himself.

The chords that accompanied the tune were not well played though. Jaskier despaired of Geralt’s absolute lack of talent (and interest) in music but Geralt’s hearing, more sensitive than any humans, had been accustomed to what the notes _should_ sound like. These were recognizable but clumsy. Just a little too fast there, just a little too short and the wait until the next one too long. Jaskier would never tolerate poor playing. Ice clawed up his spine again as he shoved his way to the front of the crowd, wondering what had happened and if Jaskier was alright. 

The crowd was so engrossed in whatever was happening in the centre, they did not even notice Geralt. He dropped the Rusalka head.

Jaskier, dressed in verdant green and gold stood hale and healthy upon a colourful blanket on the ground. That was not unusual. 

Jaskier was happily guiding the crowd through “Toss a Coin”. That too was not unusual.

Jaskier’s lute was strapped to his back and he held a wooden box at about chest height. That was...a little unusual. 

Jaskier was not playing any instrument. That was unusual. 

The honour of playing the clumsy chords was for his companion. His companion was unusual in every sense of the word.

His companion was a horse!

Not just any horse.

Its long graceful coppery neck was stretched over the box and it ruffled its fine muzzle over the sparse strings on the box to the tune of Toss a Coin, red tail flicking in time with the beat and elegant ears turned backwards in concentration. A bright blue sheet trimmed with silver (probably tin) obscured its body and the base of its neck but Geralt would know this horse anywhere.

It was _Roach_! Geralt’s Roach. Geralt’s fiendish, Witcher trained Roach! She was playing a song. _Playing a song_. With Jaskier. _Jaskier_ whom she still regularly bit for no reason other than to instill fear and ensure the steady provision of placatory treats. In the middle of a town. Roach hated people and towns were _full_ of people. 

Jaskier caught Geralt’s eye and Geralt could see the guilt creep across his face but there was no deterring his bard when there was an appreciative audience before him. The last part of the chorus was finished with composure and style. Jaskier and Roach both bowed to their audience, Roach tolerating a nervous tap on the shoulder as a command from Jaskier to bend her right knee and rest her muzzle on the ground.

Geralt had to remember to close his mouth.

Jaskier shouted above the crowd “Ladies and gentlemen! Thank you for your patronage. Please do not feel shy to acknowledge your appreciation of the marvellous musical mare- Belinda!” Roach threw her head up and down, somewhere she had acquired a little basket, handed to her by Jaskier no doubt, that she held in her teeth. Men and women placed coins in it until a little boy ran up to Roach with sugar. Geralt started forward because he knew Roach had no greater liking for small humans than large but no, Jaskier promptly snatched the basket that Roach unceremoniously dropped in favour of her favourite treat. That opened the floodgates. Sugar and bread and an assortment of sweet vegetables were proffered on small grubby hands as little children held their offerings out to the Witcher mare. Roach took them all _gently_ from each tiny hand while Jaskier made good collecting the coins from the adults.

Geralt simply watched the madness unfurl and reassured himself that he was 1) still alive , (yes, Rusalka head at his feet), 2) not hallucinating (White Raffards had worn off on the way to Rhett), 3) not bespelled (not sure about that yet).

Eventually the crowd cleared and Geralt folded his arms as a sheepish Jaskier led Roach over to him.

“I see you got the Rusalka” Jaskier beamed at him.

That smile always melted Geralt but this time, he held firm. “Belinda?” Geralt asked.

“Uh yes well, Roach is a very good name but it isn’t a very good _stage_ name” Jaskier smiled.

Jaskier waited.

Geralt waited.

Roach’s ears flattened against her head. 

Jaskier tentatively patted the mare’s neck.

Roach yanked her fine blue head collar.

Jaskier’s hand twitched to his pockets.

Geralt broke first “How?” 

“Oh I tap my finger against the box, that sets the rhythm and the finger I use, one of three, tells her which string to pluck. Roach is clever but she is not capable of learning to play a song, aren’t you, girl?” Jaskier nervously patted Roach’s neck again. She was getting antsy which meant she was going to use her teeth soon. She was lovely and Geralt would entrust his life to her but she was a Witchers horse and not trained to be patient.

“Yes I noticed that.” Jaskier looked impressed and Geralt almost rolled his eyes. “I meant how did this come about?” 

“Uh well, we were bored. Well, I was bored. You told Roach and I to stay behind at a campsite and she came over to me to see if I had treats. I carried lots of treats with me then because Roach did not like me much. Actually I still do.” Geralt noticed Jaskier absently pat his empty pockets again. The silvery scent of worry crept into the air around him. “In doing so she ruffled the strings on my lute and took an interest in the noise she made. It took weeks of training and several bruises on my part but eventually we had an act.”

“And you what- bring her out when I’m hunting something?” Geralt asked, shaking his head firmly at his mare who had started pawing at the ground, heavy steel shod hooves perilously close to Jaskier’s flimsy performing shoes. 

“Well, uh only sometimes.” Jaskier smelled guilty, a musty, acrid scent. “The first town we played at almost thought she was a monster or a were-horse, whatever that is. Is there such a thing? Probably not. We have learned since then to judge the crowd with greater care.”

Unease crept back into Geralt’s heart the thought of Jaskier in danger. 

Jaskier continued “Oh and then at another town someone did try to steal her. And me, if I think about it.” 

Geralt’s head whipped back to Jaskier. His eyes stung in the light but he ignored it.

Jaskier held up his hands placatingly. “That’s why I bought the day sheet” he rustled the fine blue fabric. “They can see “Belinda” is chestnut but they can’t identify Roach by her Warg scars if they are hidden under the day sheet”

Geralt sighed internally. It seemed he could worry less about Jaskier when he was in mortal peril from monsters.There were too many holes in Jaskier’s strategy to count. At least now he knew why people had been staring intently at Roach over the last year. Normally Witchers’ horses were given as wide a berth as their Witcher. 

Roach however, was now bored and wanted her dinner. She nipped at Jaskier and used the opening to drag him in the direction of the stable. Jaskier versus angry mare would always end in victory for the horse so Geralt grabbed Roach’s lead and tapped his finger on her muzzle to remind her of her manners. She flicked her tail irritably but settled. He shook his head at the bard who was discreetly rubbing his hand where the lead rope had burned it and vowed to check that later.

They meandered to the stable, Geralt firmly in charge of Roach who never misbehaved in his hands, while the tactile Jaskier brushed up against him as they walked, heedless of the docile townspeople still milling around. 

“Odd little town,” Jaksier mused idly as they walked. 

“It’s Fae land” Geralt kept his voice low. 

Geralt could see the bard thinking, then Jaskier frowned, “Isn’t there supposed to be a rock or tree or something for the sacrifices to be attached to then? There is nothing here.” 

Geralt nodded “A living natural thing in the case of Fae. The white tree we saw as we rode in” 

“Oh” Jaskier’s eyes widened in realization. “Oh. That white tree is not a _white_ tree, is it?” 

Geralt shook his head as Jaksier glanced around at the villagers, no doubt looking for what could have created the ashen bark. 

The bard took a breath and asked “Do I want to know?” 

“No, but....teeth” Geralt sighed, patting Roach as Jaskier turned vaguely green. 

“Well, that is... _not_ going into a song.” The bard grimaced. “Can’ t they ever take knitted scarves or something? Does it always have to be some disgusting body part, Geralt?” 

Geralt did not have the energy to discuss the extreme complexities of sacrifice and curses so he ignored that. He felt the long thin jagged lines across his shoulders burning, scars that served as terrible reminders of slighted Fae and that he had kept from Jaksier's kind hearted questions.“How many people lost their cards last night, Jaskier?” 

Jaksier grinned. “Oh all of them. I tucked the cards in Lark’s blanket as usual until you choose the ones you want.” 

“No trouble?” Geralt asked. 

“Geralt! Not even the masters at _Oxenfurt_ could tell when I was cheating!” Jaskier sounded indignant but the smell of bemusement wafted around him. Then his expression softened. “No one knew a thing and there is no trouble for a Fae to notice. None caused by me at least” he turned his eyes pointedly to Roach. 

“Fae do not extract payment from horses, Jaskier” 

Jaskier snorted. “It’s not a horse, it’s a demon” Geralt heard him mutter. On his right, Roach lifted her head threateningly and her ears folded angrily against her skull. On his left, Jaskier hastily took two steps away and held up his treatless hands placatingly. Geralt shook his head at the fiery red mare as she eyed the bard’s fingers. 

Roach huffed and dropped her head again, graciously accepting a pat from her Witcher. Jaskier returned to Geralt's side. “I know you feel uneasy in Fae lands. I do not particularly want to be outside tonight with a storm brewing but if you are uncomfortable and want to leave now, I’ll get Lark and Roach ready while you rest and eat a bit after your hunt”. 

Geralt did not deserve Jaskier. He was absolutely sure of that. He thought about leaving immediately, pushing his exhausted body through the rain and cold as he had done many times before. He thought of Jaskier, always in more danger from the chill than a Witcher and unable to see in the dark. He thought of the Fae land that still felt serene and made up his mind. “As long as you are safe, Jaskier, we can stay. But -” 

“Sing the milder songs, no swindling or cheating, no insults and don't hit anyone over the head with a candle holder for saying anything bad about Witchers. I know” Jaskier finished, grinning. 

Geralt nodded approvingly and then, because he knew Jaskier, added “Don't hit anyone with _anything_ , Jaskier”

“Now Geralt, I don't know why you think I would spend all night starting trouble in a tavern when I have a whole and entire Witcher to myself in my room.” Jaskier teased but lust swirled around him.

Geralt ducked his head to hide the heat climbing his neck and cheeks that Jaskier could definitely see. 

The bard smiled sweetly and took Geralt's arm in his own. Geralt had never ceased to amaze at what was either Jaskier’s boundless courage or his inability to think about the outcomes of an action. Witchers on the other hand learned quickly about stones and fires and the cruelty of humanity. Geralt brushed hands with Jaskier and watched the surprised townsfolk carefully. Aside from some odd looks, no one did or said anything. That was fine with Geralt. They were leaving the next day anyway.

The stable had been cleaned for the evening and the feed troughs filled with grain by the time they entered. Geralt breathed the smell of fresh hay and clean horses deeply and his eyes thanked him for the dimmer light in the stable. Curiously, the resident stallions abruptly abandoned their grain and retreated to the back of their loose boxes as they entered the stables. That was peculiar, the stallions had been inquisitive and friendly the previous day. Jaskier sighed and muttered “fiend”. Geralt looked around but there were definitely no fiends, or relicts, or any monsters here. He couldn’t sense anything in the stable other than horses, birds and a rodent and Roach was calm, only eyeing the stallions imperiously. He doubted it was the Rusalka head and it was not him, horses usually liked Witchers. Well, whatever was wrong with them, it was not dangerous and soon he had Roach settled in her stall and her nose was happily buried in her grain. He dug a tin of salve out of a saddle bag and meticulously applied it to Jaskier’s smarting hand, it wouldn’t do for a bard to have damaged hands and he would not have Jaskier in pain. Watching Jaskier stare at his fingers in obvious delight made Geralt smile as he leaned against Roach’s door. The salve was one of the few things that could be used both on Witchers and humans though he was always impressed at how quickly it deadened pain in humans. Much faster than it did on Witchers. Perhaps a Witcher's much slower heart rate delayed the onset? 

“Do you want me to stop?” Jaskier asked suddenly, cutting through Geralt’s musing

“Waggling your fingers around?” Geralt was confused

“No silly. Roach” Jaskier pointed at the mare

Her ears turned back.

Jaskier took a step back despite the stall door between them.

Geralt blinked. He thought about it. It made him nervous but…. “No. You seem to enjoy it. So does Roach. We need to think out what to do if it goes wrong and fix your day-sheet plan though”

Jaskier beamed at him again. “And we shall. At length. Over a nice bottle of wine for me and… I’ve forgotten the name again….the one named after the bird?

“White Gull?”

“Yes right. White Gull for you” Jaskier declared happily, searching a bag for something.

It amazed Geralt how Jaskier accepted and adjusted to what to him must seem the disturbing limitations and unnerving abilities of Witchers so readily. At first Geralt had shut Jaskier out because he refused to be fodder for cheap fame. In time though, Geralt had realized that Jaskier asked questions because he wanted to _understand_ . He wanted to understand so he could …help? Help was not the right word. Geralt did not need help and Jaskier never made him feel as though there was something wrong with him. It was….Geralt could almost see when Jaskier was contemplating a new piece of information and then Jaskier simply and willingly _adjusted_ . After he had managed to extract an explanation of just how sensitive Geralt’s sense of smell really was, he had _cheerfully_ stopped burning incense in their room and once he had managed to grasp an idea of how quickly Geralt was overwhelmed by noise he had _gladly_ made an effort to find quieter inns for their halts. 

Geralt could not describe how much he appreciated these acts but it went deeper than that. Geralt did not need any of those things, he would manage as he always had. He… Jaskier took …time and effort to consider ….consider what? A _Witcher’s_ … _comfort_? His well-being? Jaskier was never afraid but no, that was not the correct word either. The only other ones who had ever _cared_ , in their own prickly manner, were his brothers at Kaer Morhen and even then, Geralt was not quite like them. Vesemir’s eyes were always on Geralt and he tolerated no leniency toward his white haired former student as he did the others. Geralt grimaced, lost for the right words. There was a difference, Geralt had realized, between the shallow tolerance or perverse curiosity that he was accustomed to and genuine acceptance. Sometimes Geralt schooled his features when Jaskier’s bright blue eyes shadowed over a thing like Geralt’s inability to dream. Another time, Geralt had watched as Jaskier’s eyes narrowed and his hands tighten to breaking point on his precious lute over a Witcher’s mutation induced compulsion to the Path. Geralt felt fear grip his slow-beating heart each time but somehow Jaskier never left and he never made Geralt feel… _less …_ or _wrong_ and _s_ omehow, somehow Jaskier’s eventual acceptance of his differences felt _more.._. it was _…deeper_ or _…._

Geralt felt a flash of frustration. Even in his own head he couldn’t put the right words to it. Once, Geralt had snatched Jaskier from the toxic fumes only his black eyes could see in the gloom of an ancient eleven ruin. Jaskier had only looked mildly confused at being lifted off his feet, without warning or explanation by a black eyed mutant in a dark, isolated, deserted elven fortress. Without speaking Geralt had cast igni to burn the incendiary fumes off and drawn quen around them to shield them from the resulting rush of flame. Jaskier hadn’t panicked or fled. No, he had held close to Geralt and wheezed “ _Oh what I would give to be able to do_ _that_ ”. Geralt had only shaken his head, Jaskier would have to have given far too much. There was the time Jaskier had realized that all of a Witcher’s senses were enhanced, including sensation and including the sensation of _pain_ and he had exploded in rage. _A monster hunter, compelled to the most dangerous and wound prone task in the world more sensitive to pain!_ The bard had all but climbed onto Lark to burn the Witcher Schools to the ground. Geralt hadn’t thought it terribly amusing at the time, he had been tending to an ugly slash from an arachis, but now he could not help the warmth that unfurled in his heart. And grin at the way Jaskier had appeared to puff up like a furious, protective…duckling. A plucky ball of fluff he could imagine bristling up to the knees of three large, scarred and dangerous wolves named Eskel, Lambert and Vesemir. _A feral duckling,_ Geralt smiled to himself.

“You know,” Jaskier mused, having moved down the stable to pat his Lark, pulling Geralt from his complicated thoughts. “I’m absolutely convinced there is no alcohol in that stuff- just an orchard’s worth of poisonous plants”

Geralt laughed and joined him next to the calm bay. Jaskier had mistakenly drunk a small glass of White Gull once. Luckily not enough to harm him but the poor bard had been absolutely convinced for hours that the building was made of live birds and he was a purple washcloth. Or stew. It had varied. “There is alcohol in it. How else would you extract the hallucinogens?” Alcohol made little impact on complicated Witcher physiology but White Gull potion made a nice substitute- just enough of the right type of hallucinogen to mimic the effects of alcohol. “Not the White Raffard’s type”

“There are different types?” Jaskier sounded somewhere between fascinated and horrified.

“Hm, yes. It’s more alchemical in nature but if you want I can try expl-“

“My love” Jaskier interrupted firmly and inserted himself into Geralt’s arms. “I love you. Dearly. You know this. But do you remember how very, very bored you were when I started explaining musical theory?”

Geralt remembered it all too vividly. Sometimes, the endless stream of nonsensical words, terms and complicated theories about _sounds_ were in his White Raffards nightmares.

“I will not do that to you again if you promise _never_ to try explain anything alchemical to me again” Jaskier grinned. 

“Noted” Geralt laughed softly into Jaskier’s neck. He loved the way Jaskier smelled. It was a Witcher thing, he expected. He did not know if or how he would ever be able to tell Jaskier that he smelled of cedar and rain but Geralt loved it nonetheless. “I missed you” he murmured.

“Silly Wolf, next time you should take me with you,'' Jaskier mumbled back but Geralt could hear Jaskier’s heart speed up. The bard’s arms tightened around him. The stable was silent and still except for the comforting sounds of horses contentedly chewing hay. Jaskier sighed happily into Geralt, his weight familiar and secure in the Witcher's arms and Geralt held him tight. Jaskier was warm against him, and Geralt let Jaskier’s steady heartbeat and cedar fill his world, easing a hard tension in his heart with his presence. Neither of them moved and neither of them spoke.

Eventually, the sun dipped below the clouds and shone in through the stable windows. Geralt winced at the sudden light. 

“Cat?” Jaskier asked sympathetically, looking up.

Geralt nodded. Jaskier was extremely attentive when it came to the effects of potions.

Jaskier seemed concerned.

“I’m fine, Jaskier. Don’t worry about it.” Geralt murmured softly.

Jaskier did not look convinced but to Geralt's relief, he let it go. “Right,” he started briskly, “let’s find the mayor and dispense with that head. Ugly looking thing, isn’t it? Who is daft enough to climb into a river with _that_? Aside from a Witcher, I suppose, but the motivation is different” He shook his head.

“Very different” Geralt added

Jaskier grinned. “I’ve asked the innkeeper to send food up to the room, you look tired, and tomorrow my dear White Wolf, if you are recovered, we start for Marquis Rathewin’s delightful estate which I am told has an attentive young populace in desperate need of instruction from an Oxenfurt professor.” Jaskier mock bowed over his arm. “Uh yes, and is apparently plagued by something or things that were small but human-eating. Easy work for both of us. And a whole new set of horses for _that_ demon to tyrannize” He pointed at Roach who had stretched her elegant neck over and was enjoying the cowering stallions’ grain. 

Geralt grinned, she was definitely one of the best mares he had ever owned. 

Jaskier continued “And I believe the new Marquis is of the sensible ex-soldier, used-to-weapons and seen-too-many-monsters-to-be-stupid-about-Witchers sort.” With almost inhuman speed, Jaskier had folded and stored the day sheet and the fancy blue head-collar. “The town near the estate is fairly close to the Blue Mountains so it should sell warm clothing, right? I don’t think anything I own would be suitable for a winter at Kaer Morhen.”

Jaskier’s Marquis would be the last hunt before they made their way to Kaer Morhen for winter. Jaskier had not only volunteered to accompany Geralt to the remnants of the ancient fortress, he seemed excited to see it. Geralt was happy but….nervous. He had warned the bard that the School of the Wolf and much of Kaer Morhen that had once housed the Witcher school had been destroyed in the pogrom. The silent remnants of the fortress would not be anything like the luxurious, bustling courts he was accustomed to. Witchers too were not human, no matter their appearance, and neither were their customs and when the snow finally packed and the days darkened, the few remaining Wolf Witchers mostly slept. Jaskier had only chuckled a lust filled “ _perfect_ ” at that. Geralt had given up trying to argue further after that. He was a little worried that Jaskier would learn about the extra mutations, Jaskier was perceptive, and he would notice the differences between Geralt and his brothers. Hopefully, Vesemir, Lambert and Eskel would keep their counsel. He was however far more worried about Jaskier’s body temperature. Jaskier had been known to endure cold rather than cover something fashionable. Geralt doubted Jaskier had ever felt the bone deep bite of a Kaedwyn winter or high up in the even colder Morhen Valley.

“Hm. I’m coming with you to make sure the clothes are warm and not just fashionable”

Jaskier tsked in mock exasperation “Geralt, my dear, I intend on showing you and all the Witchers I imagine hide at Kaer Morhen under heavy furs, that warm _and_ fashionable are not only possible but quite _normal_ ”

“And _I_ intend on preventing exposure and frostbite.” Geralt raised an eyebrow. Just as he said it, he could hear the phrase ‘sharing body heat’ hang in the air and felt a flush creep over his face. 

Jaskier paused and looked Geralt up and down, slowly and overtly seductively. “Duly noted” he grinned cheekily and of all things, tapped Geralt on the nose.

It was too endearing. Geralt caught Jaskier’s arm before he could retreat to the saddlebags again. Jaskier stilled and waited, smiling softly. Geralt could hear his heart speed up.

Geralt ran his sword calloused fingers over Jaskier’s hands as he fought to organize his thoughts. He had never thought that anyone would touch him gently without being paid and never anything that might want his gentle touch. He had been barely a man when he had realized that no-one would ever touch him unless it was necessary. After the second mutations, even Eskel had ceased his friendly claps and elbowing. A year after he had been given his medallion, Geralt had ceased to believe there could be a living thing that _wanted_ to be near him unless it was in danger, never that anyone would smile at him out of simple happiness. For almost a century, he had not been able to imagine a person that would care to notice his discomfort or allow him to ease theirs. And love? He had never dared to imagine love. And yet, here was Jaskier. Bright and warm and fierce and beautiful. Geralt was not good enough for Jaskier. Jaskier deserved far more than Geralt could ever give or be but Jaskier had chosen Geralt and Geralt would hold onto him for as long as Jaskier wanted to be held. The bard was simply too important, too precious to Geralt for the Witcher to do anything else. He would never be able to articulate all of this to Jaskier so he gently put his arms around the bard and kissed him, hoping Jaskier would understand.

Somehow Jaskier always did.


End file.
